


They Were Born to Remake the World

by WaitingForTheMoon2



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, King Rhaegar, Rhaegar Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-06-24 00:27:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15618405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaitingForTheMoon2/pseuds/WaitingForTheMoon2
Summary: Rhaegar fought valiantly, and Rhaegar won.Thirteen years after the battle of the Trident, Rhaegar and Lyanna's son Aegon Targaryen prepares himself for the journey North where he will foster with his Uncle Eddard at Winterfell. To keep him safe, young prince Aegon must assume a new identity as he leaves behind his family and childhood love Daenerys as a bastard called Snow.Years later, as men and women grown, Dany and Jon find themselves in possession of the world's most precious items: Dragon Hatchlings.





	1. Prologue: The Prince

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to explore an AU where Rhaegar won, and how that would affect Jon/Aegon's personality. I also wanted propel the Jonerys narrative forward with a plot that was canon divergent but also still true to some basic elements of GOT/ASOIAF. Thanks for reading!

The great hall was brimming with strange, drunken faces. Their rancor drifted upward and out into the courtyard of Maegor’s Holdfast where Prince Aegon and his new pup-- a gift from his Uncle-- sat slouched against the outer wall. Aegon had always had an aversion to feasts and a proclivity for brooding: a trait said to be inherited from his father. The feast hall with its strange smells and tallow smoke felt claustrophobic to him. It was out in the open air where he could see the stars that he felt most comfortable. This was the “wildness” he supposed he inherited from his mother. All the same, he scratched neck of his new pup to which the creature opened its jaws wide with pleasure and nestled deeper into the young prince’s lap. Aegon smiled. The night was balmy and clear with just a hint of southron wind. He could smell the salt from the sea. Will I ever smell the sea again?  
  
“There you are,” a familiar voice called from the torchlit threshold and approached the boy and his beast. Aegon attempted to rid himself of the fog that ensconced his mind to no avail. Though her silhouette was shrouded in shadow, Aegon could recognize that Northern burr anywhere.  
  
“Mother.” Aegon sat up straight, though his pup had drifted to sleep. His mother the queen crouched down beside him and ran a single hand across his forehead, pushing his black curls aside. Two, storm-gray eyes were revealed. In the flickering torch flame, they seemed to swirl like an angry winter sea.  
  
“You’re missing your own feast.” She brought herself down to sit next to her son, her emerald green gown splashed around her like algae bloom in a stagnant pond. Other highborn ladies would have shrieked at the thought sitting on dirty cobbles in such a gown, but Lyanna Stark was not like other highborn ladies. Her son responded with a lethargic shoulder shrug. Sensing a dead end, she switched directions. “Do you have a name for him yet?” She nodded towards the snoozing direwolf pup.  
  
“Ghost,” Aegon replied proudly, despite the fact that his thirteen whole years had started to break his voice and it wavered as he said the word. Queen Lyanna outstretched a hand and scratched behind the white wolf’s ear. “Hello, Ghost,” she said smiling. “A right proper name.” For a moment they both seemed lost in thought. Though what either was thinking, they hardly knew.  
  
“Mother?” Aegon asked finally. His voice crept much too quietly and thoughtfully for a boy of thirteen.  
  
“Yes, my love.”  
  
“Do I have to go?” Lyanna let the question hang over them in silence for a moment.  
  
“You know as well as I that it’s custom to send sons off to foster,” she said sighing. “Most boys go much younger. You’re lucky your father is a king of the realm or you would have gone earlier.” Lyanna offered her son an obliging smile and a hand on his ever-broadening shoulder.  
  
“It’s just that,” he hesitated for a moment. “The north is so…” Aegon trailed off as he struggled to articulate just what made his northern cousins so foreign.  
  
“So wild?”  
  
“They hate our family! Father always says the north rues the day it bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror.” The words came with such force that Ghost stirred in his lap and let out a meager growl. Lyanna couldn’t help but smile at her son’s burgeoning personality. Fire ran just beneath the ice with this one. It didn’t take much for it to melt the thin layer and burst forth like dragonflame. A Targaryen with black Stark hair. And not just any Targaryen. Son of Rhaegar, King of the Seven Kingdoms.

  
“Egg, I want you to listen to something,” she said intently, her brows furrowed. “You were born a Targaryen. You are the blood of the dragon. With every step you take, you seem to grow more like your father. But there is something else that runs in your veins. Something just as important.” Lyanna placed her hand over her son’s heart and then gently placed it atop Ghost’s slumbering form.  
  
“Wolf blood,” Aegon said quietly. Lyana smiled and nodded.  
  
“Wolf blood,” she reiterated. “Stark blood. Blood of the first men. And tomorrow when you wake up you’re going to tie back your hair, and put on the northern garments your Uncle Eddard brought with him. You’re going to ride out of the Red Keep with your Uncle Eddard, and you’re going to ride north. You’re going to ride farther than you ever imagined possible. But soon enough you’ll arrive at Winterfell. Winterfell is my home, and now it’s your home, too. Learn from it. Learn the customs and the talk and the food. The traditions and way of life and their sense of honor. When you come home, you’ll be a man grown.” Lyanna let these words linger in silence between them from a moment before she stood and smoothed her gown. Aegon had never truly pictured his mother more than anything but his mother up until that point. A mother is something of an incomplete picture to a child. But now he understood that his mother carried with her pieces he didn’t truly understand. “You better get some rest, my love,” the queen said. “Tomorrow comes soon.”

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Shadows bounced off the walls as Aegon climbed the spiral stairs to his chamber with Ghost tucked snugly under his arm. At least I have you, boy. The clink of armor trailed him as it always had, but tomorrow the two White Cloaks would cease to be his shadow at his mother’s insistence. He would be a true northern lordling, she had said. And northern lordlings can defend themselves. In reply, his father simply laughed at that, mumbled something about northerners under his breath and returned to his studies. Aegon sighed as he opened and shut his chamber door, leaving the knights to stand sentry on the other side. But from inside his solar was a rustling sound, like a whoosh of skirts. Suspecting some rogue Baratheon loyalist, Aegon started to yell out, but before the sound escaped from his mouth, a pale hand reached out and clasped it shut.  
  
“Everything alright, my lord?” A white cloak called from beyond the threshold.  
  
Aegon removed the slender hand from his mouth and glared at the silver-haired figure standing opposite him. “Fine!” he shouted.  
  
“Some dragonknight you are,” Daenerys Targaryen giggled as she turned and walked through the solar and into the bedchamber. Aegon could feel the embarrassment churn in his stomach as he followed her. The prince’s chamber was as grand as any, and white curtains billowed inward like clouds. The candles were lit and he could see someone-- probably his mother-- had sent up the meal he had missed. Aegon plopped Ghost down onto his feather bed and the baby direwolf padded awkwardly to the pillows and nestled himself among them. Dany squealed and climbed up onto the bed, reclining next to the pup.  
  
“What are you doing up here?” Egg whispered.  
  
“Why are you whispering? They’re not going to tell on us. And anyway, I came to say goodbye,” she said scratching Ghost behind the ears. Aegon shifted his tunic and went to pour himself a cup of wine, but he could still feel the heat gathering in his cheeks.  
  
“I can’t believe they’re making me go,” he said gulping down a cup of diluted Arbor gold.  
  
“I think it would be a great adventure,” Daenerys said. She sat up cross-legged on his bed, looking genuinely excited for her nephew. Though Daenerys was his aunt by birth, in truth she was far more than that. They had grown up together as prince and princess as Viserys was sent to Volantis to foster with an Old Blood family long before Aegon was old enough to befriend him. He and Dany had explored every inch of corridor underneath the Red Keep and played in the jaws of Balerion the Dread. They splashed on the beaches of Dragonstone and learned to ride horses atop its cliffs. They loosed arrows together and pretended they were Aemon the Dragonknight conquering Dorne. But it was not long ago that Aegon began to feel something stir whenever Daenerys came near him. A flutter in his stomach or so it felt. And then he began to notice things that had gone unnoticed before. Her wit, her beauty, her budding curves, the scent of her silver hair. It was a secret he never wished to reveal.  
  
“Well you’ve clearly never been in the north,” Aegon said drearily as he shoved a handful of grapes into his mouth.  
  
“Neither have you,” Dany retorted. “I would go North if I could.” Dany scooted toward the edge of the bed closer to Aegon, leaving behind a happy, snoozing direwolf pup. “All the weirwood trees and their old gods. It sounds exciting.” Her enthusiasm always made Aegon feel curmudgeonly, but it was that spark that he loved.  
  
“Mother and I worship the old gods, you know,” he said smiling. Dany stood from the bed and padded over to where Aegon stood and instantly he recognized the mischievous glint in her amethyst eyes. “What…?” he said, attempting to draw from her whatever she was scheming. Daenerys grabbed the cup from his hands and set it with a thud on the table and took Aegon’s hand in hers, leading him to the hearth. He knew what this meant. The hearth concealed a secret passage out of Maegor’s holdfast and out into the greater Red Keep.  
  
“Where are we going?” Aegon said as Dany dragged him onward.  
  
“Grab that lantern,” she said quietly. Aegon did as she commanded. The secret stairwell from the prince’s chamber was narrow and cobwebbed, but the stairs themselves were well worn. Many Targaryen princes and princesses before them had taken these stairs under many different circumstances. Once descended, they emerged from behind an ancient, tattered tapestry in a small chamber of the holdfast currently in use as an armory. Clambering from the small passage, they were greeted with the clang of armor crashing down.  
  
“Go!” Aegon screamed, and the two Targaryens raced out into the courtyard. They arrived both clutching their bellies from the mad dash and the laughter. “Probably not the best escape route,” Aegon said catching his breath.  
  
“How was I supposed to know there would be armor in there? It changes every time we use that passage. At least it wasn’t full of chickens like that one time.” Dany took Egg’s hand in hers once more and led him across the silent courtyard.  
  
“What it people see us out of bed?” Aegon said as he glanced around, searching for potential tattlers.  
  
“They’re all too drunk to notice,” Dany said as-a-matter-of-factly. “And besides, your father and mother are already in their chambers. Look, there’s light coming from their tower.” Aegon glanced up. Sure enough, a soft glow was emanating from the King and Queen’s chamber. It only then did Aegon realize where Dany was taking him.  
  
“The godswood?” A smile blossomed across Dany’s face as they entered the silent paddock. The godswood was Aegon’s favorite place in all of King’s Landing for reasons he could not yet explain. Perhaps it was the fact that in the middle of a sprawling city there existed a place of unmatched solitude. Or perhaps it was the presence of the old gods as his mother said that made him endeared to the place. Either way, being there with Daenerys made his heart pound just a bit harder. They walked in silence through the sanctuary until they reached the heart tree: a great oak covered in vines. To Aegon, its face looked reverent rather than forlorn or foreboding as some people thought. It was a face that called to Aegon. “Dany, what are we doing?” He finally asked.  
  
“What’s that northern ritual people do in front of heart trees?” she asked vaguely.  
  
“Well, there are lots of things you can do in front of heart trees.” Aegon realized then that although he and Dany shared most of their lives, this was not part of their shared experience. It was an experience he shared only with his mother. “You can pray, you can bind people together…”  
  
“That’s the one!” Dany said in hushed excitement.  
  
“Handfasting?” Aegon asked, genuinely confused. “That’s like getting married.”  
  
“Give me your hand,” it was not a request. Aegon outstretched his hand which Dany took. From her skirts, she produced a hair ribbon, bejeweled in sapphires. “Will this work?” she asked.  
  
“Dany, work for what? We can’t bind ourselves, we’re thirteen! And besides, we need a person to say the ritual.”  
  
“Do you know the words?” Dany said ignoring Aegon’s protests.  
  
“Well yes, I know the words. But…” Aegon trailed off.  
  
“Egg, you’re leaving for Winterfell tomorrow. I don’t know when I’ll see you again. If I’ll ever get to see you again. What if you come back completely different? What if you die? What if I die?” Aegon’s heartbeat took over his hearing for a moment and he failed to realize their hands were still locked together between them.  
  
“So you want to…” Aegon could hardly bring himself to say the words. “Get married?” He could not conceal the bewilderment in his voice.  
  
“Well it’s not really getting married, right? I’m just claiming you as my person.”  
  
“Dany, that’s getting married.” A smile crept across Aegon’s face and he couldn’t stop the laugh as it escaped him. “This is crazy. We can’t get married! We’re thirteen!”  
  
“We don’t have to do married stuff,” she said giggling. “We can just say the words, right?”  
  
“Well...” Aegon considered it all for a moment, but in truth, he had no idea what would happen if he were to bind himself to Dany. Would the old gods strike him down? Would they really and truly be married? What did the gods accept and reject? He thought of how furious his parents would be with him. “No one would have to know right?” Dany smiled at his capitulation and took the question as a victory.  
  
“No one but us.” She handed the ribbon to Aegon who accepted it like he had just been handed a dead fish. “Go on,” Dany urged. Aegon awkwardly draped the ribbon across their palms and pulled the slack up and over one side with his single free hand.  
“There,” he said quietly. Dany inhaled and exhaled and glanced at the face on the heart tree, then back at Aegon, her silver hair glowing in the moonlight as it broke through the canopy. She nodded at Aegon to continue.  
  
“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" he said quietly, resolutely.  
  
“Daenerys Targaryen and Aegon Targaryen,” Dany’s voice was hardly a whisper.  
  
“Will you take me, Aegon Targaryen?”  
  
“I will take you,” Dany said in response. Aegon pulled her down and knelt at the foot of the heart tree.  
  
“Pray,” he whispered.  
  
“Oh, right,” Dany shut her eyes before the heart tree and for a few moments, all that could be heard were the rustle of leaves. When Aegon opened his eyes he found Dany already waiting for him. The two stood as an awkward silence engulfed them. It was only then that Aegon saw the nervousness in Dany. With his heart leaping from his chest, he took a step forward and met her lips with his. Her mouth opened to his slightly. He did not know how long they kissed, but it made no matter. Aegon knew his world had changed forever.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The morning arrived with a lurch. Sun poured through the windows of Aegon’s chambers, and in the distance, he could hear the Red Keep beginning to stir. A knock sounded on his door and Aegon beckoned the guest to enter. Ghost was curled up against his side, still snoring. Rhaegar Targaryen entered, brilliant in a ruby tunic that matched the circlet crown perched atop his head. He was like Aegon the Conqueror reborn. Though his silver hair ran in stark contrast to his son’s, they shared more similarities than differences. Everything the two touched seemed to master itself in their hands. The harp, sums, literature, fighting… The king was one of the greatest living fighters in the realm. A fact solidified when he defeated Robert Baratheon on the Trident. His boy son, though, showed great skill with the sword already and had won many meles against fighters twice his age at tournaments. In truth, however, the two preferred the close companionship of a few to the many acquaintances that often come with royalty. They preferred the solitude of study or a godswood as opposed to a night of feasting or tourney celebrations. The king sat himself down at the edge of Aegon’s bed.  
  
“He seems quite taken with you,” he said smiling at Ghost’s curled up form.  
  
“I think he just needs a companion,” Aegon said as he sat upright.  
  
“No,” Rhaegar paused thoughtfully. “There’s something about you Starks. You seem to have an otherworldly command over these companions of yours. I’ve read texts stating the Stark lineage can trace itself back to greenseers of the first men.” Rhaegar smiled. “You can ask your new Maester about it when you arrive at Winterfell.” There it was. The word that hung between them like a millstone around a neck. Winterfell.  
  
“Father…” Aegon composed himself. “Why are you making me go? I want to stay here. With you and mother and…”  
  
“Daenerys?” Rhaegar finished the thought for his son. The latter blushed and the former let out a sigh. “That is precisely why you must go, Egg. We are all you’ve ever known. It’s time for you to see the kingdom you will someday rule.”  
  
“But they hate Targaryens in the north! You yourself said so.” Aegon kicked the bed clothes from about him and rose. He padded over towards the trunk his uncle had given him and began to dress for the journey. The clothing was much thicker than any he had ever worn.   
  
“The wounds of my father’s reign and rebellion are yet to be healed,” Rhaegar admitted. “But this has been a peaceful and prosperous decade." He paused. Mulling over the reality of the northern situtation. "And yet… you are wise to feel weary of the northern lords. Most have sworn fealty, but I suspect many would still like to do away with our family. Sometimes I think your mother forgets that.” A sullenness seemed to overtake the room. It was Rhaegar who broke the silence. “Aegon, you are precious to me above all else. This is harder for me than you can possibly imagine, but I know it must be done. For you and your mother. And yet, I know we are sending you into a nest of potentially treasonous northern lords…” Rhaegar stood and walked towards his son. Aegon had finished dressing. His shadow black curls had been smoothed back and tied in a knot with a leather string, and about his waist a sword belt. On his chest, a breastplate with the direwolf sigil of House Stark. The sight rid the king of all words for a moment: He was Brandon Stark reborn.  
  
“Father?” Aegon called. “Father, what is it?”  
  
Rhaegar stepped closer and put an arm about Aegon’s shoulders. “Nothing, my son. It is nothing,” he said, willfully attempting to rid the memories from his mind. It was of no use. “Egg, I need you to listen.” Rhaegar turned his son toward him, placing both hands atop his shoulders. “My father committed unspeakable crimes against the Stark family. It is the biggest regret of my life that I did not stop the atrocities in King’s Landing. My own children were slain by Tywin Lannister before I could reach the city to end the carnage.” Aegon had rarely heard his father speak of Aegon and Rhaenys. The names sent his stomach hurtling toward the floor. “By the grace of your mother and your Uncle Eddard alone were we able to repair the realm after the rebellion. You two are my life. And if anything were to happen to you…” Rhaegar’s voice strained under the pressure of a thousand and one regrets. His eyes brimmed.  
  
“Father, what if no one knew I was a Targaryen.” A bewildered look swept across Rhaegar’s face.  
  
“My son, you are a Targaryen. I would never want you to be ashamed of that.”  
  
“I hear it all the time. A Targaryen who looks more Stark than Targaryen.” Aegon looked down at the sigil on his breastplate and touched it gently.  
  
“I suppose it’s not uncommon for lords to return home with their bastards conceived during wartime...Even many years later” A mischievous look crept across Rhaegar’s face, not totally dissimilar to the one Daenerys’ shot him the night before.

  
“Bastard?” Aegon asked. “Whose bastard?”  
  
“When you leave the gates today," Rhaegar said seriously, "When you ride out beside your uncle... You will cease to use the name Targaryen.” Aegon attempted to piece together the puzzle and suddenly his head began to swim.  
  
“What shall I be called then?”  
  
“Snow. Bastards born of northern fathers are called Snow.”


	2. The Dragon Beneath Winterfell

The air that morning that crept through his window had a crispiness to it that Jon was unused to. The previous day during his fencing lessons, Maester Luwin said he expected a white raven from the Citadel “any day now,” and Jon could see the manifestations of this foretelling as the Stark household began their winter preparations. Wayns laden with grain and root vegetables were so numerous that Jon and Robb had to find another place altogether to spar. Lady Stark said she didn’t want her son being trampled by turnips… She had made no indication whether or not she cared for the welfare of Jon the bastard. 

He swung his feet from the bed, landing softly on the unseasonably warm stones of Winterfell castle. For centuries the hot spring beneath the castle kept the winds of winter at bay-- though the smallfolk would have you believe it was Dragonfire. Today was a day he’d been looking forward to for a long time: his name day celebrations. He was eighteen years old. A man grown. Jon rose from the bed and stretched away the stiffness that had crept across his body in the night. He dressed hastily and simply, forgoing his leather gambeson, opting instead for a deep blue undercoat that made his gray eyes turn to river water. He glanced at the looking glass on his way out of his chambers and nearly laughed at what looked back: A Stark. A man of the north. A man, as far as Lady Catelyn or anyone else knew, was Eddard Stark’s natural son. By royal command, Rhaegar had forbid Ned from revealing the secret even to his lady wife. 

_ “You ask too much of me,” Lord Stark spat. Eddard had raged that night in the Holdfast, pacing across the room as Rhaegar laid out his scheme. “I bear great love for my nephew and sister, but you ask too much of me. My  bastard,”  he seethed at the word. “It will destroy Cat. I know her. She is proud and no fool. She will begin to ask questions about this mummer’s farce.” Rhaegar’s dark amethyst eyes looked upon Ned with pity, yet his resolve remained resolute.   _

_ “My Lord,” he sighed softly. “Though your lady wife is proud and cunning, she also bears a great love for you, does she not? She will forgive you.” Rhaegar placed a hand atop Eddard’s shoulder and let go a deep sigh. “The realm depends upon this task, Ned.” Ned narrowed his eyes at Rhaegar quizzically. “For 300 years the Targaryen’s have ruled this land and with it, they have rained fire and blood. The Seven Kingdoms cannot afford another Targaryen princeling raised by fussing attendants and court intrigues. The realm needs not another Maegor or Aerys. But we cannot pretend the North poses no threat to my son. He needs protection only anonymity can give him.” Rhaegar released Ned’s shoulder and walked toward Aegon who had remained still as shadow throughout the exchange. “No matter how much Lyanna and I influence the boy, snakes may whisper falsehoods in his ear. More than anything, the realm needs a man of the people. A humble man. This is the only way all those lost to us haven’t died in vain. This is the only way we can secure the realm.”   _

A soft rap at the door sounded, and Jon was released from the memory of that long ago day. The sound stirred Ghost, the great direwolf, who stretched his jaws wide in sleepy protest. “‘Morning, boy,” Jon grinned and swung open the heavy oaken door to reveal his Lord Uncle’s steward. The boy wordlessly handed Jon a small, sealed scroll, bowed and brusquely turned to leave. “Thank you,” Jon called after the skittish steward, but the boy had already escaped down the corridor. 

Hands trembling, Jon broke open the seal and unrolled the parchment. He recognized the small, slanting scrawl instantly: _Father_. 

_ "The dragon beneath Winterfell stirs," _  it said. __ That was it. Jon turned the parchment over to make sure he had not missed anything, but nothing more was revealed. Jon looked to Ghost and the animal cocked his head as though commiserating the confusion. Though Jon had grown used to receiving cryptic messages from his father and mother, lest his true identity be discovered, this one had been the most indecipherable yet. His first guess was that his father was simply wishing him a happy name day and that now that he had come of age, he was ready to return to King’s Landing. The thought filled Jon with dread. “Ghost, come,” Jon patted his thigh and beckoned the albino beast to his side, and the two made their way towards great hall to break fast. 

At the high table sat his siblings Stark: Robb in regal grey furs and Tully auburn hair; fair Sansa; the spritely Arya who grew more and more like her aunt Lyanna by the day; Bran, whose dark thatch of hair resembled Jon’s; and finally little Rickon who was riding his direwolf Shaggy Dog across the hall tailed by a flustered Septa Mordane. Jon took in the scene smiling to himself. This was his home. 

“Blessed name day, Jon!” called Rickon as he cantered by atop Shaggy Dog, grinning from ear to ear. The high table erupted in laughter. 

Jon took his seat at the table beside Arya who was slathering honeyed butter across a slice of bread. “‘Appy name day,” she said, her mouth full to bursting. Jon reached out to muss her dark hair as he always did. 

“Thanks,” he said contently. 

“Happy name day, Snow!” Jon looked down the table and saw that Robb had raised his goblet in a toast. Jon poured himself a goblet of steaming mulled wine and met his toast with a grin and a nod. 

“I thank you, Stark,” he raised his cup followed by a long swig. The drink filled his belly with warmth and comfort and soon after began to litter his plate with soft-boiled eggs, crisped bacon and honey cakes the cook had made him special. It was there, in the smoky great hall, surrounded by his family that Jon felt most contented. Though he missed his mother and father greatly, he could not help but think of his old life in King’s Landing as a mummer’s farce. _But Daenerys_ … he pushed it all aside. Her amethyst eyes, her gowns and silver hair. Her laugh and wit. Only six moons ago Lord Stark had brought him the news of her marriage to Renly Baratheon. Arranged in the hope that the two houses would once again be united as in the days of Aegon the Conqueror, and to heal the wounds of the failed Rebellion. Jon consoled himself the only way he knew how: with Ygritte. 

Under the blackness of a new moon, Jon crept through the castle, and across the bailey to Wintertown where the girl with fire in her hair lived with her father and mother, both bakers by trade. They had met in the Winterfell kitchens where Ygritte called him “Lord Snow,” much to the amusement of Jon and to the dismay of her father. She was not beautiful, but Jon had grown to admire her spark and soon began to catch himself thinking of the girl. He found himself lingering around the kitchens more and more often. But on the night Jon learned of Daenerys’ marriage to Renly Baratheon, a madness overtook him, and he crept through Ygritte’s open window and took her maidenhead. The thought of the muffled cries of her sweet release and the wetness between her legs sent a shiver down his spine and a throb against his trousers. After that night, they had spent much of their time sneaking off to find darkened corridors and empty rooms in the castle to satiate their lust. 

“Jon,” a familiar voice called him forth from the thought of Ygritte. It was Eddard Stark. Cloaked in sable furs, and with brow furrowed, he looked every bit how a northern lord ought to. Jon noticed in his hand was a scroll of his own, and the seal had been broken. “Happy name day,” he said happily, but Jon detected a sense of alarm underneath the well-wishes. “Come, I have something for you.” Jon exchanged a look of bewilderment with Arya, downed the remaining contents of his cup and followed his Lord uncle through the great hall and out into the inner bailey. Winterfell’s bailey was a bustling mud pit, and Lord Stark weaved through the wayns and household members gracefully, his cloak floating behind him. When he stopped outside a darkened threshold, Jon knew there was only one place Lord Stark could be taking him: The Crypts. 

Ned outstretched a single arm and gestured Jon down into the black. The rank smell of dirt and sulfur washed over Jon as he descended-- his shadow twisting along the stairwell. During his time at Winterfell, Jon could count his visits to the crypt on a single hand. Not because he felt uneasy about death, but because there was another feeling-- something he could not yet articulate-- that made him feel uneasy. 

“Lord Stark, where are we going?” Jon asked, his voice wavering with suspicion. Eddard, a few paces ahead of the young Targaryen, passed the crypts of his Lord father and slain brother but showed no sign of slowing.  _ Further down?   _ “Uncle?” Jon repeated, soliciting a response to no avail. Eddard pulled a flickering torch from a sconce and moved ever deeper into the dimly lit passage towards another flight of stairs, though these were littered with rubble and debris from the passing of time. 

“Almost there,” Lord Stark finally said, as he descended ever lower. The air was heavier now, and thick with the smell of sulfur. Jon had never been to this level before. The passage below him was black as pitch, and Jon felt fearful. 

The stone visages the men they passed had crumbled and the swords at their feet rusted to dust. 

“Were these the old Kings in the North?” Jon asked.

“Aye,” Eddard replied, his arm outstretched with the lit torch. “Before Torrhen Stark bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror,” he paused and gave Jon a little smirk, “We Starks were Kings in the North. It’s been ages since I’ve been this far down. We’re almost there, I think.” Lord Stark stopped and handed Jon the torch whom he commanded to hold it aloft. Jon had begun to sweat and wasn’t sure he would be able to withstand the stench a moment longer. Lord Stark pulled the small parchment scroll from his cloak, read it silently and looked around the cavern. “Damn you, Rhaegar,” he said softly. 

“Rhaegar? What has father got to do with this?” Jon could not hide the look of bewilderment that swept across his face. 

“Everything.” Lord Stark strode forward into the black and Jon was all but powerless to follow, torch in hand. The two men made way toward the end of the passage where it had caved in. Stone and dirt blocked the way and the stench of sulfur grew stronger. 

“My lord,” Jon started but stopped when he saw his Lord Uncle fall to his knees and begin to dig through the rubble. “My lord,” Jon repeated, “why did my father want us down here?” But Lord Stark did not answer. Minutes passed as the silence between them was only punctuated by the sounds of falling rubble and shifting dirt. And then… Lord Stark rose and turned slowly. The torch had dimmed and Jon struggled to make out what Lord Stark held between his hands.  _ A clump of dirt? No, much too large… A rock?  _

“This,” Lord Stark stepped closer, bridging the darkness between them. With a gloved hand, he began to slowly sweep away the dirt from the nebulous mass. As he did, it began to take shape. And then Jon could see it: a black, metallic glimmer in the firelight. And scales. Jon’s heart began to race. He had heard stories the from father growing up. Of Good Queen Alysanne and her dragon Silverwing in Winterfell.  _ Her great mount was drawn beneath the castle, as everyone knows Winterfell sits atop a natural hot spring. The smallfolk say that Silverwing made her way down through the crypts and laid a clutch of eggs…  _ His father told him the story so oft that Jon had memorized it. _ It cannot be,  _ thought Jon. 

Finally, with outstretched, trembling hands, Jon grasped the dragon's egg. 

 


	3. The Dragon's Demise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys and Renly are feasted at Illyrio's manse when an unexpected visitor shows up

     Thousands of miles from Winterfell, Daenerys woke to the unfamiliar smells and sounds of Pentos. Across the magister’s sprawling garden a peacock called out and through the open window, the scents of persimmon and cinnamon were carried on a gentle breeze. The room Magister Illyrio had hosted her in was far finer than any she had ever inhabited. Brocade curtains on an ivory four-poster, gold-leaf encrusted goblets, marble floors from the quarries of Qohor and jade utensils from beyond Qarth. Dany had taken to sleeping naked after arriving in Pentos and she stretched the night’s stiffness from her lithe body but was loathe to leave her bed so soon. Instead, she wanted to linger in the dream the gods were so cruel to wake her from. Aegon, she thought and tried recalling every inch of his face. The shadow black curls, the full lips. It her dreams she kissed those lips a thousand times and more but always woke to an empty bed and a hollow heart.    
     “My lady, may we enter,” a soft voice called from beyond the chamber door, and Dany was shoved headlong from her thoughts of Aegon. Dany sat upright and groaned for the knew there was no option of denying the request. Here come the clucking hens. Not a moment later, the door swung inward and unleashed a flood of Pentoshi handmaids into Dany’s sanctuary. They wore simple garments of cream crepon that flowed loosely about their brown bodies, and Dany noted the amethyst organza gown cascading across one’s arm. Damn, she thought, they’re feasting Renly and me tonight.     
Never one for bashfulness, Dany stood and faced the horde bare as her name day though the handmaids paid no mind. One began to fuss over the tray of jams and loaves of bread, one walked into the adjoining chamber to run a bath while the last started to lay out the day’s wardrobe changes. Three in all. Dany wandered across her chamber to the table and poured herself a glass of chilled pomegranate juice, still lost in the web of thought. Name day… Aegon’s name day…  Her heart sunk a bit further. Our fifth nameday apart.    
     “Is there no wine this morning?” The thought of an endless sea of Pentoshi come to gaggle at her and her new husband all while the burden of Aegon hung about her neck like a millstone was too much to bear. I need a drink, and I need it now.    
     “At once, my lady,” the handmaid who had moved onto fluffing Dany’s pillow curtsied and left the room, her white gown trailing behind her like a silken specter. Dany drained the remaining contents of her cup and walked toward where her bath was being drawn. Steam that smelled of rosehip and chamomile wafted up and enveloped Daenerys like Braavosi fog. She inhaled deeply, letting the heat linger in her lungs. The sunken bath overlooked the garden and that of the city beyond the magister’s walled manse.  And beyond those walls, the sea, and beyond that Westeros… Daenerys stepped down into the hot bath, and though her skin turned red, she flourished in the heat.    
The thoughts that swam forward in her mind’s eye were not of Aegon, however, but of her husband... Renly Baratheon. Youngest of the Storm Lords and brother to the would-be usurper, it had caused quite an uproar when Rhaegar finally announced the betrothal. Even Rhaegar’s most leal lords questioned his judgment. But when Daenerys Targaryen and Renly Baratheon wed beneath the great sept of Baelor, the whole of the kingdom seemed to turn out including the skeptical lords. Not a single expense was spared as a week of feasting and tournaments followed to celebrate the union of the Dragon and the Stag. The realm was now truly healed they had said. Despite talk of repair, however, Daenerys herself felt torn in two. Even as Renly cloaked her in front of gods and men, she could think of only that night with Aegon beneath the heart tree and the simple ribbon that bound them together. At the feast that evening, her heart leaped from her chest when she saw Lord Stark and his son Robb, but Aegon was nowhere to be found.    
     King Rhaegar and Queen Lyanna had masterfully kept their son’s secret while Lord Stark played his part. For the past five years, Aegon had allegedly traveled across the known world on a cog, sailed up the Rhoyne on a skiff, was hosted at manses of noble families across Essos and bartered in Qarth with warlocks. Sitting upon the dais the night of her wedding, Daenerys felt her life had become even more of a mummer’s farce than Aegon’s. Rousing from her thoughts, Dany moved across the water toward the open archway, resting her chin on her hands as she looked out across Pentos. On the night of their wedding, her husband told her he was in love with the lord of Highgarden. Bracing himself for the fallout, Renly winced as Daenerys erupted with laughter. She was relieved. Though not on that night, nor the night after, nor the night after did Dany and Renly consummate their marriage, out of the rubble of a marriage, a friendship blossomed.    
     The clack of boots and a familiar voice made Daenerys turn from her city view.    
     “Hello, my love,” Renly Baratheon squatted down at the bath’s edge. Essos suits him, she thought, and it was the truth. He had forgone his traditional Westerosi garb for the softer tunics of Tyroshi and Pentoshi men. Where a clipped beard once was, now two braided forks sprouted from his chin. Dany giggled.    
     “What does Loras think of these,” she swam over toward her husband and tugged at the forks. “Next you’ll start dying your hair blue…” Dany’s bared breasts bounced upon the surface, her nipples huge and round from the heat of the water. Renly shrugged.   
     “Perhaps while we were in Tyrosh. The Pentoshi have no patience for such frivolity,” he said sarcastically and glanced around the opulent bathing room. Dany stood and padded out of the tub and into a muslin towel a waiting handmaid had splayed open. Dany let the woman wrap the cloth about her wet form, allowing the sheer fabric cling to every curve, and walked into her chamber to dress.    
     “There is news for you,” Renly said, his mouth full of sweet Volantene grapes. Dany, who was being attended to by two of the clucking hens, looked up as she wriggled into the amethyst gown.    
     “Oh?” She gathered her silver hair and held it over a single shoulder as one of the hens began intricate lacing process up her backside.    
     “Viserys is here…” Renly said with an air of nonchalance, and the Storm Lord paused for dramatic effect. “...with a Dothraki Khal and an exiled Westerosi Knight.” Daenerys supposed she could not hide her look of complete shock and wriggled free of the hens’ fussing fingers.    
     “Viserys? Last I heard he was in Volantis with a Triarch’s daughter.”    
     “Thrown out after planting a bastard in her and refusing to marry,” Renly said laughing. “You know how he feels about foreigners.”    
     “Please don’t joke about this, Ren. And no, I don’t know how he feels about anyone. I’ve never even met my brother,” Dany snapped. “And from everything Rhaegar has told me about him, I don’t want to meet him. ‘Half-mad and a lustful deviant,’ Rhae said, and from what you’ve just told me it’s not far from the truth.”    
     “He’s your brother, Dany,” Renly said with a sigh. “And he’ll be presented to us this evening along with the rest of Pentoshi nobility.” Not a moment’s too soon the chamber door swung open revealing the handmaid whom Dany had sent for the jug of wine.   
     “Thank gods,” Dany said, relieved, and dashed toward the handmaid. With desperation, she plucked the jug from her hands and poured herself a full goblet of Arbor gold. Renly watched with amusement as she drained the contents in a handful of deep gulps.    
     “Better?” He said walking over towards his bride. Dany’s purple eyes betrayed her. She was indeed drunker but none the better. Renly leaned forward and planted a soft kiss atop Dany’s forehead.    
     “We’ll be alright, my dear wife. We just have to survive the evening.”    
The evening came with the fury of a herd of stampeding Volantene elephants as half of Pentos seemed to be crammed inside Magister Illyrio’s manse. The gardens were littered with crooning peacocks and glittering lanterns, that, from Daenerys’ balcony looked to be constellations. The gown Illyrio had made for her was quite possibly the most beautiful Daenerys had ever worn. The bodice was sheer save for thousands of emeralds conspicuously placed about her breasts and navel.  Her silver hair was worn loose in a cascade of curls. When she and Renly entered the feast hall, Illyrio declared her to be the most beautiful woman in the world, a declaration to which the guests murmured in agreement. Renly looked like tarnished silver next to the Targaryen, though he paid no mind.    
Dany sat upon the dais between Renly and Magister Illyrio and scanned the massive crowd for her brother to no avail. The chair at the end of the dais that had been laid out of him was conspicuously empty.   
     “He’ll be here,” Renly said in a weak attempt to placate her. The effort did nothing to stave off the anxiety felt over Viserys’ quite obvious absence. Dany took another gulp of wine and dunked a bit of bread in some olive oil to settle her stomach. Half-mad and a lustful deviant. The words were Rhaegar’s description of Viserys, but she could not help but think of another Targaryen people called mad: her father Aerys II.    
     “It’s time for the toast and my gift, my dear child,” Illyrio Mopatis patted Dany’s knee genially and hoisted his large form from his chair. The clamor in the room grew quiet.    
     “My most noble lords,” Illyrio’s voice echoed off the walls. “On behalf of King Rhaegar, first of his name, the royal couple would like to thank you all for such a warm reception. The crown hopes that their visit usher in a new era of friendship between the ports of Westeros and the riches our fertile lands have to offer.” He paused as polite applause flooded the room. “In appreciation of our newly forged friendship with the crown,” he began, “I have a gift for the young dragon Princess.” Illyrio nodded and two household guards brought forth a small ornate chest. With some effort, they approached the dais and placed it with a thud atop the table in front of Daenerys. She glanced at Renly who shrugged. “Stolen from Rhaena Targaryen hundreds of years ago by her jealous lover Lady Elissa Farman, it is time these are returned to a worthy Targaryen.” Dany’s heart began to beat faster and faster. She stood and placed both hands on either side of the chest and opened it. She gasped. Dragon’s eggs, three in all: cream, black and green.    
     “My lord, I am speechless,” Daenerys said, and she gently picked up the black egg in the middle. “Thank you.”   
     “Now,” Illyrio boomed jovially. “Let us raise our cups,” and the magister lifted his jeweled cup into the air, “in a toast to friend--” but a crash at the back of the room interrupted him as the great, gilded doors swung open. Though perched atop the dais, Dany could not see the commotion stirring towards the back of the hall, and a shriek of what sounded like an animal being slaughtered was sent up for all to hear. Terrified, Dany stood, but could only see the crowd gather like a school of fish and part for whomever-- or whatever-- approached the dais. As the commotion came closer, Dany realized it was unmistakably human.    
     “What is it, Magister,” Dany said, clutching the dragon’s egg harder still.    
     “I know not, child. Come, whoever they are we will let them do you no harm,” the Magister placed a hand at Daenerys’ back in an attempt to usher her away from whatever approached but was stopped cold as a voice rang out over the hall.    
     “Hello, sweet sister,” Daenerys froze and turned. A slender man with pale silver-gold hair and a long, sallow face looked up at her. The man was on his knees, and his hair was gathered in the massive fist of the biggest man Dany had laid eye’s on. The large man, shirtless with a black braid down the length of his back, tugged at the silver-haired man’s head and the man gave out another pitiful yelp.    
     “Princess Daenerys,” Illyrio began slowly. “May I present your brother, Prince Viserys Targaryen.” A crazed smile blossomed across Viserys’ face as he peered up at her from his knees. Illyrio continued, stumbling over each word. “And this,” he gestured towards the man clutching Viserys’ head of hair, “is Khal Drogo, the most powerful of the Dothraki Horse Lords.” The shirtless man sneered up at those perched atop the dais. The Dothraki spoke first, his words guttural, harsh and indecipherable to Daenerys though he looked only to her.    
     “What does this man say,” Daenerys commanded, attempting to cover the fear in her voice with false courage.    
     “He says your brother owes him a substantial sum on money. His life has been spared only because his people foolishly believe him to be a pale-haired warlock.” It was at this moment a man whom Daenerys failed to realize was even there spoke up.    
     “Your translation is a bit mistaken, Magister,” a gruff bear of a man stepped forward. He was older and balding, but handsome nonetheless. “In the common tongue it would be ‘your son of a bitch brother,’” a half-smirk crept up the side of the man’s face.    
     “Yes,” Illyrio said, his voice dripping with annoyance. “My thanks, Ser Jorah.”   
     “Ser?” Daenerys spoke up. “You are from Westeros?”   
     “Ser Jorah Mormont, from Bear Island, my Princess,” the knight bowed genuinely.    
     “Can we not settle this elsewhere?” Daenerys insisted as Jorah translated her request into Dothraki. The Khal chuckled, narrowed his eyes at Daenerys and began to speak.   
     “The Khal says he’s finished listening to the lies of dragons. He requires repayment or he will slit the Prince’s throat here and now.”   
     “Sister,” Viserys mewled. “Please.” Daenerys turned to Renly.    
     “What do we do?” Daenerys whispered into her husband’s ear. She was clutching the dragon’s egg so hard now that it was beginning to leave marks upon her cream skin.   
     “Tell him the crown will repay him, for god's sake,” Renly said with quiet urgency. Daenerys turned toward the Khal, Ser Jorah and Viserys once more.    
     “The crown will pay the Khal whatever is owed at once. Our coffers are plentiful and the blood of the dragon is precious no matter how foolish.” Daenerys said with confidence as Ser Jorah translated. The Khal smirked and whispered something into the knight’s ear that turned his face as white as milk of the poppy.    
    “The Khal says the only repayment he will accept is you, princess.” Renly began to draw his sword but Daenerys placed a hand to stop him.    
     “Please tell the Khal that is impossible,” her voice fuming. “I am not a broodmare to be sold to the highest bidder. I am a Princess of Dragonstone and blood of the dragon. His request insults me.” Ser Jorah translated this to Khal Drogo who laughed heartily. He let go of Viserys’ hair and stepped up to the dais, his black eyes focused intently upon Daenerys. Under his breath, the great Khal muttered something indecipherable to Daenerys. “Ser Jorah, what does he say?” But before Daenerys finished, the Khal grasped her about the waist and hoisted her over the dais. What happened next Daenerys could only partially comprehend. Still gripping her dragon’s egg, the Khal flung her over his shoulder and quickly moved from the dais. Renly screamed, and the Khal and what looked to be two more Dothraki began to slice their way through household guards with curved blades Dany had never seen before. Somewhere Viserys voice called out but was stopped short and in its stead, Dany heard the gurgles of a dying man’s sliced throat.    
     Blackness overtook her.    
  



	4. The Dragon Awakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We briefly catch up with Rhaegar who learns of Daenerys' abduction and Viserys death. 
> 
> Then we're off to Castle Black where Jon is visiting with his Uncle Benjen.

 

**KINGS LANDING**

 

King Rhaegar was nose deep in an ancient tome by Septon Barth when the Grand Maester practically battered in the door.

“Your Grace, forgive me,” he panted, winded and wheezing. Apparently, the wizened old man had rushed up the tower to relay whatever message he had received. Rhaegar gently placed the book down and looked up from his spectacles.

“What can I do for you, Grand Maester?” The King eyed the old man with careful consideration.

“Your Grace, a raven from Pentos. From…,” the Grand Maester took a deep breath, “Magister Illyrio. The girl…” he puffed again, “Princess Daenerys… Captured…” Upon releasing the final word, the Maester folded into the nearest chair apparently unable to go on. From the climb or the news, Rhaegar could not tell but it made no matter, the King had his full attention.

“Maester, this is paramount. What exactly has happened to Princess Daenerys?” He stood and poured the Maester a cup of water and shoved it in his wrinkled hands. “Drink for gods sake and tell me all, old man, or you’ll be supping in the black cells tonight.” Rhaegar knew the threat was empty, but more oft than not, the Maester had a proclivity for dramatic flair that had to be quashed.

“Oh,” he squealed. “At the feast for Princess Daenerys and Lord Renly, a Dothraki Horse lord b-b-brought your brother Viserys…” Rhaegar kneeled before the old man, wordlessly spurring him onward. “The Horse Lord said Prince Viserys owed him large sums of m-m-monies. Gambeled away no doubt. Her Highness said the Crown would pay, but in his own savage ways, the Horse Lord would only accept her as repayment. He c-c-c-captured her and, and, and…”

“Get on with it you fool,” Rhaegar spat.

“Killed your brother, Your Grace.” Rhaegar stood and noiselessly stalked toward his writing desk. The old Maester looked upon in confused terror for a moment but stood upright as his King turned toward him once more though this time with a scroll in hand.

“Ready the Kingsguard,” Rhaegar said as he walked through his chamber threshold. “And get this to Winterfell. It’s time for my son to come home.”

**CASTLE BLACK**

Castle Black was not a castle at all, and Jon’s sense of grandeur deflated as they rode through the gates and into a muddy yard. Brothers of the Watch waddled around in training padding, while others busied themselves with winter preparations. They were hardly the warriors of legend Jon had been told stories of as a young boy. But the Wall… The Wall was larger than Jon had ever dreamed and he found himself craning he neck just to see to the top which was covered in a bank of grey clouds.

Benjen dismounted and the others in their party followed suit. The men they had transported to Castle Black for Lord Stark were led to the armory by two brothers in black who glowered at the castle-born. Thinking nothing of their icy stares, Jon pulled his leather gloves from his hands and made a feeble attempt to rid the numbness of riding from his fingers, but it seemed to be of no use: the Wall seemed to make everything colder. Presently, a stout man, white of hair and cloaked in the only black furs that weren’t matted with mud emerged from the second landing. He looked down his fat nose at the newcomers.  
  
“Benjen Stark,” the old man guffawed and began to make his way down the flight of creaky wooden stairs.

“Lord Commander,” Benjen strode forward and embraced the grizzled old bear.

“My Lords,” Benjen turned, his arm around the Lord Commanders back, “this is Lord Commander Mormont. My Lord, may I introduce you to My nephew. Jon Snow. Trueborn son of Lord Eddard Stark.” Lord Commander Mormont met Jon with a raised eyebrow.

“You’ve got the look of a Stark, that’s for certain. And you’ve got one of those damn Stark dogs.” Jon gave Ghost’s head a couple of pats as the Dierewolf continued to survey and smell his new surroundings. “How are you with a sword, m’boy? Hm?” Commander Mormont slapped Jon’s arm and chuckled.

“I’m not bad,” Jon said smiling, his black curls loose about his face from the day’s ride.

“The boy’s humility will be his undoing,” Benjen interjected. “Some around Winterfell say he’s the best swordsman they’ve ever seen.” Jon’s face turned red as a summer strawberry.

“Good lad,” Commander Mormont offered genially. “Gentleman, this way. There’ll be nourishment in the great hall if you’ve need of it. And some piss-sour ale if you're in need of that too." As the assemblage of travelers made their way to the great hall, a Brother appeared with what looked like urgent news for Lord Commander. “Damn,” Commander Mormont said quietly as the Brother nervously eyed the guests and left as quick as he came.

“My lord?” Benjen asked.

“Maester Aemon’s steward is ill and there’ll be no other stewards who know their sums or letters well enough for Aemon." As though compelled by some unknown force, Jon spoke up.

“I can tend to him,” he said. He cursed himself as soon as the words left his lips.

“Tend to him? He’s not a nursing babe, son. He’s a Maester of the Night’s Watch. Have you any Steward experience?” Jon glanced at Benjen who nodded encouragingly.

“No, but I know my sums and can read anything put in front of me… I’m a hard worker and I won’t get in the way.” The First Ranger and Lord Commander exchanged silent looks.

“Alright, boy, alright,” Commander Mormont sighed. “You’ll report to Maester Aemon at first light. Benjen here will show you to his quarters.” Benjen clapped Jon’s back, offered him a smile and led the Heir to the Iron Throne into the great hall at Castle Black.

_That night Jon dreamed he was a great four-legged beast with huge paws of white fur. He was hunting something-- no, stalking it. The thing was bleeding and it had left streaks of blood in the snow that looked black in the moonlight. Jon’s mouth watered and his nose was flooded with the metallic tang of raw flesh. And then he saw it. The injured doe. In a single leap, Jon was on top of the animal tearing at its throat with Valyrian Steel teeth. Blood filled his mouth and warmed his belly. Somewhere inside Castle Black, Jon screamed._

Jon bolted upright in his bed, his heart pounding. A sheen of sweat covered his lithe body and with a single hand, he touched his lips as though expecting to feel the stickiness of blood. With a sigh of relief, he discovered nothing. Out the window, he could see first light and hastily began to dress despite his dream feast still lingering in the back of his mind.

With no appetite of which to speak, Jon broke his fast with honeyed lemon water to calm his nerves. Three loud raps sounded at the door causing Jon to jump, spilling the contents of his mug down the front of his gambeson. Shakily, he walked toward the door and swung it inward, revealing Uncle Benjen.

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” Benjen declared, clapping a hand on Jon’s furred shoulder. Jon smiled.

“Just a night terror. That’s all.” Jon stepped through the threshold and out into the frozen dawn.   
  
Benjen led Jon across the open air balcony that encircled the yard toward the rookery and Maester Aemon’s chambers. “He’ll be up. Being blind he’s often got his times mixed up. Like as not you’ll find him supping at midnight and sleeping at midday.” Benjen heralded their arrival with a few more thuds, though this time he did not wait to be let in and opened the chamber door himself. “Maester Aemon?” he called through the threshold and poked his head inside. “I’ve come with the new Steward.”

“Come in, Benjen, come in,” a feeble voice called from the darkness. The two Stark men entered the dusty antechamber as though walking atop a frozen lake. Once inside and once his eyes adjusted, Jon looked about in amazement. Books, papers, vials, scales, jars all lined the walls. Soon Jon could make out a small, hunched figure slowly emerge from the adjoining chamber.

Maester Aemon revealed himself, pausing in the rising morning light to greet his guests. The man beamed, though the whites of his eyes betrayed the fact that he had no sight.

“Welcome, my lords. I thank you for helping this old man in his time of need,” he chuckled. “As you know, alphabetizing my private library is of utmost importance to the Watch.” Jon looked to Benjen for some clue as to what to expect but was met with only a smile and a wish of good fortune. Finally, Jon was left alone with Aemon Targaryen, son of Maekar and brother to Aegon fifth of his name.

“Well, my boy, what can I call you? Though if you wish to remain silent all the while, I can find a suitable name for you. Perhaps kidney pie?” Aemon grinned, turned and beckoned Jon to follow him deeper into his quarters.

“Jon, Maester Aemon. My name is Jon Snow.”

“Ah,” Aemon answered as he lowered himself with some effort into a chair. “A Northern bastard. We have many of those here.” Jon moved closer.

“My father is Lord Eddard Stark,” he said softly.

“A castle bastard! Not many of _those_ kinds of bastards here I’m afraid. You are on loan to me, I hear. From Winterfell then?” Maester Aemon pushed a stack of papers into Jon’s unsuspecting hands but failed to mention what to do with them. Jon continued to stand awkwardly.

“I’ve traveled with my Uncle Benjen Stark who transported criminals who've opted to take the black."

“Ah, the exciting rebirth of the vows of the Night's Watch. An entire life's slate wiped clean,” Aemon stated. “Come my boy, let us take a bite of the day’s task. Sit,” Aemon gestured to the chair next to him which Jon took gladly.

“These are all the letters which I’ve received in my lifetime.” Jon stared at the stacks littered about the room in awe. "From the time when I was a boy to yesterday. My wish is to categorize them by the sender and then the order in which they were received.” And with that, Jon began to dig into nearly one hundred years of Maester Aemon’s life.

The first few hours Jon sorted through the letters revealed nothing of great import or interest. Orders of herbs and tinctures for the Watch, news from the Citadel. But somewhere between the second and third growls of Jon’s stomach Jon’s heart lurched upward into his throat. _Your friend, Rhaegar._ Jon said the final word aloud.

“Yes, dear boy, the same Rhaegar as our king.” Jon was speechless.

“You know my fath--” he corrected himself before the word came out “--the king?”

“Know him,” Aemon released a soft chuckle. “My boy, King Rhaegar is my great-nephew,” he smiled toward the window light. _Nephew…_ Jon’s heart beat faster and his eyes grew wide. _That would make him…_

 _“_ In another life, before I swore my vows, people called me Aemon Targaryen. Son of Maekar.” Jon’s head spun. Father never told him about an uncle serving as Maester of the Night’s Watch but as Jon flipped through the pile in front of him, years and years worth of letters from his father were laid before him. They began recently, only a few months back, and as far as Jon could tell stemmed back years before the Rebellion. Jon picked one up and began to read.

_… He will make a great ruler but as he grows closer to manhood I am afraid of the course he will take after he learns of the prophecy. Imagine, Uncle, spending one's entire life believing you were someone other than your true self. Aegon is the Prince that was Promised it. I know it and The Children confirmed as much… I fear for him greatly..._

Jon could read no more. He stared up at Maester Aemon who was now fussing with a large, black raven who appeared suddenly. The winged beast _quarked_ at Jon and tilted his head in curiosity.

“Yes, my boy, hard to believe a royal prince would give up such a life for the life of a humble Maester of the Night's Watch..." the old man maddeningly changed the subject and directed his attention to the bird. "This is Lord Commander Mormont's raven. Poor fellow injured his wing a fortnight back. He seems to be in working order now.” Aemon held out his palm, offering the bird a handful of cracked corn.

“Corn!” The bird quarked again and then, “King!” Jon jumped at the words in astonishment.

“An amazing creature,” Maester Aemon cooed, stroking the bird's head with his free hand while the raven pecked at the corn in his other.

“Where did he learn to speak?” Jon asked.

“All creatures recognize what’s in front of them,” Maester Aemon said nonchalantly. “This one can just articulate it better than others,” he smiled and lifted his head towards Jon.

“I see no king,” Jon said, his voice low and throaty.

“Yet...” A grin blossomed across Aemon’s face though Jon did not return it. His chest heaved and fell in quiet, hushed breaths. He dared not speak. “I was wondering when we would meet, Aegon.”

Jon said nothing but only stared in bewilderment.

“You should give your father and I more credit, dear boy. He would not send his son and heir north without alerting me,” he smiled and stood. “Come,” he said softly. “I have much to show you and it grows darker, we haven’t much time.” Jon had remembered what Uncle Benjen said, but couldn’t sake the feeling it was not the sun’s place in the sky that Maester Aemon warned of. “And bring those letters,” he finished curtly.

He led Jon to his sleeping quarters. A quaint corner of a dusty chamber with a ragged fur coverlet and a small nightstand greeted them unceremoniously. “In the stand by the bed. Open it and retrieve the book from inside, dear boy… Careful now… There you go.” Jon placed a small leatherbound tome in the Maester’s hands though still reeling from the fact that for the first time in half a decade, he was once again Aegon Targaryen. It felt foreign and wonderful.

“ _Tales of the Long Night,”_ Maester Aemon said as he walked back toward the tables littered with yellowed parchment.

“Fables? Old Nan reads these to Bran and Rickon,”

“Fables all grow from a seed planted long ago,” he said quietly as he thumbed the thick pages. Jon wondered how the old man knew where to go, but trusted him all the same. “My boy, my time on earth draws near to a close. Your father,” Maester Aemon paused and heaved a great sigh. “Your father is a burdened man. Do not be angry with him for keeping this from you.” He thrust the open book into Jon’s hands but Jon was disinterested.

“Are you ill?” Maester Aemon shuffled over to his chair once more and lowered himself down with trembling hands.

“Ill? No, my son, no. Just tired. A century is too long to exist. I long to see my Egg once more… And Dunk too…” Jon inched closer and knelt before his Uncle and wished he could see what he had seen in his lifetime. The Maester’s breaths grew more and more labored and Jon took his hands in his. His skin was paper thin and cold.

“Maester Aemon you've got a chill. Let me fetch you some furs and stoke the fire.” Jon went to stand but was held down by Aemon.

“No, child. Just stay with me. Read the book to me one last time,” he paused to catch his breath. “And speak with your father. Seek Daenerys. There is much and more you don’t understand yet.” Jon’s eyes flitted upward at the name.

“Daenerys?”

“You were born to remake the world… together… Seek her…”

That evening in his chambers once more, Jon would remember watching the life go out of his Uncle Aemon. Knelt before him, hands clasped together bridging the generations they spanned. He cursed his father for keeping Aemon hidden from him all these years and cursed the gods for robbing them of what precious time they had together. That afternoon as burial preparations were discussed, Jon insisted on building a pyre. “All Targaryens are burned after leaving this realm,” he said quietly. No one had bothered to ask how he knew that. With determination forged only from a heart heavy with grief, Jon helped assemble the pyre-- log by log. They would light it at sundown, the Lord Commander had said. Lying on his bed, Jon could see that the time had come to say farewell to Aemon Targaryen. He grabbed the dragon’s egg from his satchel and went out into the cold.

The Watch had already gathered around the pyre. Hundreds of brothers shrouded in black with lit torches held aloft. Jon snaked through the crowd to stand next to his Uncle. The two men greeted each other with solemn nods. Jon felt the egg in his hands and thumbed its smooth scales. He didn’t know what those around him would say when he placed the egg in Maester Aemon’s hands, but words were wind and he cared for theirs little and less. His leg’s felt like jam as they climbed the first rungs of Maester Aemon’s pyre. The logs were rickety and Jon wobbled a bit as he leaned over and placed the egg in the dead man’s hands and folded them about it. He looked as though we were sleeping. _He's with Egg,_ Jon thought. As he climbed back down, Jon caught a look of bewilderment that swept across the Lord Commander’s grizzled face but couldn’t bring himself to meet his gaze. As Jon walked away, he heard the Commander give word, and felt the heat of the pyre rush up against his back. _Farewell, Aemon,_ he thought.

_The great white creature stalked its way into Jon’s dreams once more that night. This time, rather than a forest, it’s huge white paws padded across mud and snow inside a castle yard. All was dark save for the glowing embers that sat in the middle. They emanated a strange scent. He lifted his snout into the air and smelled it: burnt flesh. Nose to the ground, he used his senses and sniffed toward the smoldering heap. The smoke filled his nostrils and he shook his head. He hated the smell. No, there was something else here in this pile. Something he did not recognize and could not place. Something he had never smelled before. He pushed his nose into the rubble careful of the glowing embers. It was the hour of the wolf, and not a single other creature stirred. The scent grew stronger until it overwhelmed him. Then finally his snout found what he had smelled… It was soft and leathery and scaly. It stirred beneath his pestering snout. The white paws began to clear out the dirt and rubble now. The scent became clearer. Finally, he could see it without obstacle. Leathery membranes that rose and fell softly. The creature took a step back._

Jon woke with a scream. Without caring to light a lantern, Jon fumbled about his chamber for his boots, still pulling them on as he careened out of the threshold and into the frozen night. Below in the yard, he could see Ghost staring up at him as he stood next to the glowing remains of Aemon’s pyre. Jon bound down the flight of steps but moved carefully once he hit the mud below.

“Ghost, what is it, boy?” The direwolf turned and whined as he faced toward the rubble. Jon moved forward carefully, as though walking atop eggshells. The fire cracked and both Jon and Ghost jumped. “Easy, boy. Easy. Show me what you found.” Ghost padded forward, his snout pointing toward the center of the embers. Jon’s heart began to beat up into his throat and he walked across the crackling rubble. He leaned over and carefully cleared what Ghost had left behind. And then he saw it… Without hesitation he scooped it up, it’s claw digging into his forearm but he did not seem notice nor flinch. Onyx black with an iridescent sheen, it was the most beautiful thing Jon had ever laid eyes upon. Ghost nudged up next to Jon, curious to see the creature closer. The baby dragon wrapped its tail about Jon’s arm and unfurled itself revealing a head of tiny barbs and two eye slits barely open. With his free hand, Jon touched the head of the dragon. Its eyes opened.


	5. Dracarys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany finds her strength.

DAENERYS  
  
THE DOTHRAKI GRASS SEA

How long Daenerys had been on the road she could not say. The night the Dothraki smuggled her from Pentos they had blindfolded her, bound her at the wrists and ankles and gagged her. The days that followed were days of hard riding which made her saddle sore. From what she had gathered they had circumvented all settlements and cities and had slept and traveled off roads. She was handed pungent strips of leathery horse meat as daily nourishment, and around the hottest part of the day, she was given a wineskin full of cool water. Her blindfold and wrist binds were not even removed for her to make water.

The manner in which her captors had handled her had not gone unnoticed, however. Day after day Daenerys waited for the defilement that never came, for the strike that failed to ever land upon her. Though the rough, calloused hands pushed and pulled at her, they were not harsh but gentle even. After the first few days, Daenerys realized it was futile calling out for help and that it would be advantageous to simply keep her mouth closed and her ears open. So that’s what she did. She strained her ear at each Dothraki sound hoping to piece together the puzzle of grunts and growls. 

On and on they led her. After two weeks they were still on land which led Dany to determine that they must be headed east. _West of Pentos_ , she thought, _is Westeros._ Had they been traveling southron they would have been in the disputed lands by now, and North? Well, they certainly were not in Braavos. Soon Dany could hear the quiet rush of water streaming past reeds and the muffled bustle of dockworkers. It was not a settlement, nor a city, so it must have been a river crossing. Dany strained her ears for the common tongue or Valyrian but only Dothraki was spoken. The chink of coins was being exchanged, and soon the sound of horse hooves across wooden planks reverberated across the water. They were fording a large river.  _ It must be the Rhoyne,  _ Dany thought. 

On what Dany determined to be her third week traveling as the Dothraki’s hostage, two huge hands lifted her from her horse removed her blindfold. The light had been so blindingly powerful and overwhelming that Dany bent over and retched up what little left she had in her stomach. Her head throbbed. When her eyesight was fully restored, Dany found herself staring out across the largest grass plain she had ever seen.  _ Like a sea of grass.  _ The group stood on a crest overlooking a shallow valley at the bottom on which sat a large encampment. From their vantage point, it looked to be a few hundred Dothraki and the smell of their cookfires made Dany’s stomach turn on itself once more. Khal Drogo who remained ahorse and led their small party down into the valley and into the Dothraki encampment. 

The trek down to the village was a short one, but the icy stares that greeted her made her wish her captors would have kept her blindfold on. Her stomach still churned, though this time spurred by the apprehension of what waited for her once Khal Drogo unbound her. Hundreds of pairs of wide brown eyes were cast her way as Drogo leg her into the heart of the settlement where the largest and most ornate tent stood.  _ It greets me like a tomb,  _ she thought. Bloodriders, their bronze arakhs shining in the sun, stood sentry outside the gate and greeted Khal Drogo. With each step, her heart beat harder and louder still until she was almost certain those around her could hear it. Soon her breaths became shortened and shallow. 

Dany ducked under the tent flap and was greeted by the musky scents of burning oils and tallow candles. The air was thick and hazy with smoke. At the center of the tent was a large lodgepole and at its base, an old woman was trussed up to it like a sucking pig. Her wild curly hair was in tangles about her face, but Dany could see she had been beaten. Dany resisted a bit, but the strength of Khal Drogo overpowered her. He thrust her down and pulled a dagger from his waistband. Daenerys closed her eyes and winced, waiting for him to strike at her with it, but the blow never came… Only the sensation of her wrists springing apart and the ropes which bound her together for over a month falling to the ground with a limp thud. She opened them and looked down at her freed hands and then up to Khal Drogo. His gaze was intense and unwavering but Dany did not break it. 

“Thank you,” she said softly, rubbing her sore and bloodied wrists. The Khal stood, placed the dagger into his waistband once more and strode from the tent without a word. Recovering from the shock of freedom, Dany spun around and kneeled in front of the trussed woman. She pushed back the hair from her face. The woman’s eyes fluttered open for a moment, then closed once more. 

“Are you hurt?” Daenerys asked in Valyrian but was met with only a groan then a faint whisper. Daenerys leaned in closer. 

“Water,” the voice was hoarse and weak. Dany looked about the tent and saw a bucket and ladle. She first drew a drink for herself then carefully brought the prisoner a drink. The woman drank sloppily and greedily, spilling most down her front. “Thank you,” she said hoarsely. 

“You speak Valyrian?” Daenerys questioned, still kneeling before the aged woman. The woman nodded. “What is your name?” Daenerys asked once more, the words somewhat clunkily rolling off her tongue. Despite stumbling over the lilt of Valyrian, the thrill of sharing a language with someone gave her hope. 

“Mirri Maz Duur,” the woman croaked. “Stolen,” she coughed. “And defiled by the savage Dothraki,” she spat at the name. “In my village, I was an honored priestess. A maegi. Now…” The maegi trailed off and looked her body up and down. Dany followed her gaze and could see blue bruises that littered her arm and dried that blood caked her legs. 

“I am sorry,” Dany whispered kindly. “I am stolen from my people, too.”

“Who are your people?” The maegi asked. 

“I come from the land beyond the Narrow Sea. Where the men in steel dresses are.” Dany did not know the word for armor in Valyrian and hoped the translation would suffice. The maegi nodded solemnly.

“Yes, I have met those men in my life. They are like all other men,” she spat again. 

“Not all men are like these men,” Daenerys said defiantly. Suddenly Aegon’s face swam forward in her mind’s eye. She felt a pang of longing and pushed it aside. 

 

It was there in that tent Daenerys would stay. Day after day. Night after night. Seeing neither sun, nor rain, nor moon, nor stars. Only the maegi to keep her company and the memory of Aegon’s face to give her hope.

 

The day Khal Drogo entered the tent for the final time would live in Daenerys’ memory for eternity. Daenerys had grown accustomed to the Khal and was not frightened by him often-- after all he had treated her gently-- but the look in his eyes that night frightened her. He began to speak, the Dothraki oozing from him in his deep voice. 

“He wants me to translate for him,” the maegi glared at him and glanced to Daenerys. Khal Drogo proceeded to speak. “He says white-haired people are possessed of magical properties.” Khal Drogo squatted and placed the chest he carried in in front of Daenerys and opened it. Dany gasped. Her egg. Black and beautiful and whole. Khal Drogo continued to speak, all the while the maegi translated but Dany could only stare at her egg. “Hundreds of years ago,” the maegi continued, “the white hair people rode sky horses and poured fire on the Dothraki. They used magic and blood and mounted the world like a great stallion. It is known that only death can pay for life.” Dany’s eyes darted upward at the word death as it reverberated out into the smoky tent. Mirri Maz Duur continued on, the Khal only looking only to. “I have lost the moon of my life. The stallion of death took her and my son away. Your magical blood and sky horse will bring them back to me.” Daenerys looked at the maegi who began to smirk at Daenerys. 

“Back? No one can bring back the dead. I have no magic,” Dany said, panicking now, her heart sounding like horse hooves in her chest. “Tell him, maegi.” The maegi translated and the Khal laughed and muttered a few words. 

“Your, blood,” she said resolutely. Khal Drogo stared at Daenerys and pushed the chest closer and proceeded to speak. “And the blood of your sky horse,” the maegi said, an insidious smile crept across her face. 

“My sky horse is stone,” she paused to glare at the Khal. “tell him that,” Daenerys spat. “It possesses neither blood nor magic.” The maegi translated and the Khal laughed. 

“The great Khal says my repugnant life and your life will bring back his wife and child and give him the sky horse of the silver-haired people. He says with it he will be the stallion who mounts the world.” Daenerys looked at the Khal in silence, her chest rising and falling. Her head whirled. 

The Khal grabbed Daenerys' hands and pulled her upward, clenching her slender wrists together with a single hand. Resistance was futile against the whole of his strength, and Daenerys was drug from the tent and out into the encampment once again. Behind her, she could hear the maegi struggle against two bloodriders. A great mass of people had congregated outside the tent though what they were doing, and what faced toward Dany could not tell. The people parted for Khal Drogo who lead Daenerys by the elbow. Dany glanced behind her towards the now silent Mirri Maz Duur who was being prodded forward like a cow. Dany looked to Drogo who’s stone face looked only forward. Soon they came upon two pyres and Dany could feel her heels begin to dig into the ground in unconscious protest. The Khal spurred her onward. 

A team of bloodriders grabbed either one of Dany’s arms and led her to the pyre. She did not protest but could feel her bowels turn to water as they began to tie her to the wooden poles. Beside her, Mirri Maz Duur fought against her guards and screamed insults at the Dothraki who met her words with jeers and hisses of their own. Dany could not understand why a sense of calm overtook her as the Khal placed the dragon egg at her feet, but the egg’s presence was a peaceful one. As chaos and commotion eddied around her, the world went still for Dany. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard a wolf howl...

The Khal approached the pyres with a lit torch and placed the flame against the kindling at her feet. Dany looked down at the dragon’s egg as the flames swirled around it. How she knew she would not feel the searing torment of the fire, she did not know, but she knew it would never come.  _ Fire cannot kill a dragon,  _ she then thought.  _ I am the blood of the dragon.  _ The flames rose higher and higher. Looking through them was like looking through a flowing stream, and Dany could see the look of terrified confusion dance across the Dothraki faces. Her clothes had long since turned to ash upon her skin, but she remained unburnt. The flames seemed to last an eternity, but soon a new sensation overcame her. It began in her legs and moved slowly upward. It was hurting her, emitting sharp jabs of pain. She looked down, her eyes wide. The creature was black and leathern. Its papery wings clawed their way up her thigh and over her abdomen. Finally, Daenerys could see it clearly.  _ Dragon.  _

Who pulled her from the ashes of the pyre, Daenerys could not say. Some bloodrider, perhaps. Great hands ushered her from the rubble and the creature was pulled from her suckling breast. Its shrieks hurled into the night like a demon as it cried out for its mother. She woke that night at the hour of the wolf tied to the pole Mirri Maz Duur once occupied. The maegi that had now turned to ashes. Inside her tent, the blackness was suffocating, but her ears perked at a small stirring. There was someone in the tent with her. 

“Name yourself,” Daenerys croaked as she struggled against her bindings. 

“Do not speak, princess,” a low, smooth voice whispered into the darkness. “Not if you want to see your hatchling again.” It was the accent of a Westerosi, but she could not place from where. It was not of King’s Landing or the Crown Lands. The presence drew closer. She felt rough hands clasp hers and heard the sound of a dirk saw at the rope. Soon her hands were free and they grasped at the night air for her liberator. 

“Answer me, ser. Your name,” her hands moved upward, finally landing upon human form. She felt the quiltings of a leather gambeson and the steel of a chest plate. The man pulled her upward gently. Keeping her close. 

“We have no time for that, princess. Come.” _Northern,_ Daenerys thought.  _The man is Northern._ The man slung what she felt was a fur over her and she pulled it close about her naked form. Daenerys remained silent but could only think of the creature who suckled at her breast in the pyre. _He needs me._

“My dragon,” she whispered as she groped around the darkness. “Where is my dragon.” It was not a question. 

“The Khal’s tent. I counted more than ten bloodriders standing guard.” She felt the hand tug at hers through the black and suddenly felt propelled forward and into the night sky. The air smelled of smoke and burned flesh, but Daenerys felt alive. More than alive. The Westerosi was cloaked in black, his riding hood had been pulled up around his face. Daenerys looked around and saw the silhouettes of slain Dothraki in the grass, their spilled blood pools of black in the moonlight. 

“Ser, please,” Daenerys tugged at his hand, stopping them. “I will not leave without my dragon.” The Westerosi turned, his face still shrouded in shadow. At his belt, the hilt of a sword peered out barely visible in the moonlight. A white wolf. 

“Do you trust me?” The Westerosi asked, still hiding his face. Daenerys paused. 

“I trust you,” she said finally. 

“Good,” he said, leading her onward. The encampment was silent. Not even a campfire crackled as their footfalls crunched across the tall grass. The Westerosi pulled Daenerys behind a tent and knelt down. “We will need to stay here for a moment.” _That voice... It cannot be..._ With both hands the Westerosi uncovered his head from its hood, revealing a head of black tendrils that cascaded down to his shoulders. Daenerys felt her heart stop. The Westerosi seized Daenerys by the shoulders and pulled her in, crashing into her. Their mouths met, greeting each other with blissful abandon. After a few moments, he pulled away from her, the moon finally giving his secret away. 

“Aegon,” Daenerys sobbed, her face still cupped between his hands. She felt tears stream down her face as Aegon kissed them each. 

“You’re safe, Dany,” Aegon kissed her once more and pulled back, his brown eyes staring intently into her. “But I’m going to need your help,” he paused. “I’m going to need you to see inside your dragon.” Dany sniffed and looked up at the face that had kept her going all these years, bewildered. “You’re bonded with him. He feels you," he explained. "Close your eyes and search for him.” Dany nodded and did as what was asked of her. At first, nothing came to her, but then she felt something pull at her. 

_ The tent was dimly lit and smelled of death. In the corner, the human that tore him from his mother slept peacefully underneath his furs. The cage around him made him feel angry. The blood inside him boiled and he felt a longing for his mother. Mother. Mother. Mother. He snapped at the bars of the cage but could not escape. Finally, a word seemed to float on the horizon in front of him. A whisper at first, then louder. And louder. Finally, he could hear it clear: Dracarys. Dracarys. Dracarys. He knew what he must do. With all his strength he could muster he breathed fire at the wooden surroundings. They succumbed to flame almost instantly. The Khal stirred from his furs and he felt the anger once more. The man who tore him from his mother. His cage crumbled around him and he lifted off, stretching his wings and flapping upward shakily. He heard the word in his ear again. Dracarys. He retched flame once more, this time coating the tent with fire. The Khal was fumbling across the inferno, grasping for him, but he resisted and flew out of reach. Dracarys. Flame burst forth, shooting his inferno into the face of the Khal. The Khal screeched and stumbled backward into the pole at the center. Dracarys. Dracarys. Mother. Mother. And finally, he saw her. She stood at the opening of the inferno. Naked and as beautiful as he remembered her. He flew to her and into her embrace. She cradled him against her breast and walked into the starry night, away from the burning inferno.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I wanted to reunite AeJon (hehe) and Dany in a way that was sweet, brave but also didn't rob Dany of her moment to enact revenge. Hopefully, I delivered just that. I also wanted to add a bit more fantastical elements to dragon bonding. I just finished Fire & Blood and thought how cool it would be to make certain Targaryens dragon wargs. Now we have two. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy and Happy New Year!


	6. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick take on Aegon/Jon and Dany's reunion after she burned the Khal. Lots of fluff, angst and some mild smut :)

 

**Jon**

The journey from Winterfell to the Dothraki Grass Sea had taken Jon four passes of the full moon, but in the darkness, as Daenerys’ silhouette rose and fell beside him he could not recall a single moment from the voyage-- only the moment in which the glow of night sky lit up her amethyst eyes. The two lay together, face to face as a sliver of silver light cut through the skylight in his pavilion. It had been more than half a decade since Jon looked upon the lines of Daenerys’ face. In the time between, even covered in ash and soot, she had only grown more beautiful. His eyes swept across each lash, the curve of her full lips, each strand of silver hair. It was then that Jon recalled the moment Daenerys flooded back into her body after inhabiting her dragon’s; recalled how the naked princess went limp in his arms and hadn’t stirred since. He recalled his father’s face, pale and unsettled as he walked past him with Daenerys' enfeebled body cradled in his arms. Rhaegar had protested when Jon insisted on ranging out alone but said not a word to his son upon his return to the encampment. Jon was thankful for it. 

Now, in their shared silence Jon wanted nothing more than to cradle Daenerys again. He reached out and pulled the furs over her bared shoulder and brushed her skin. The contact sent a surge of connectedness throughout his body-- something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before when survival wasn’t guaranteed. Torn between waking her, kissing her lips and crashing into her as no man had ever crashed into a woman, and letting the soft, shallow breaths of much-needed rest continue, Jon inched closer and pulled himself under her furs. Gently, he shifted Daenerys into the nook of his arm and held her there. Adrift in a sea of exhaustion and contentedness, Jon let himself be carried away as the darkness overtook him. 

The morning came swiftly and without dreams, but Jon’s mind would not stay calm for long. They would have to move quickly for surely the Dothraki would not allow the party to escape without avenging their slain Khal. From her perch, Daeraxes screeched as Jon’s onyx dragon stirred at morning’s first light. The dragon unfurled itself and snapped at Jon, smoke wafting from its nostrils. He slid from the furs and Daenerys and began to busy himself with placating Daeraxes, but the dragon outstretched its wings and began flapping erratically, lifting itself into the air in a frenzy. She had spotted the green dragon Daenerys had brought into the world not but hours ago and released another hairsplitting shriek. 

“Easy, girl,” Jon cooed as he outstretched a hand, gently touching the dragon’s snout with two fingers. “It’s alright.” The dragon floated back down to her perch as if commanded. “That’s it,” Jon reached into an earthen jar and pulled from it a handful of raw meat to which the dragon responded with another shriek. Jon tossed the meat to the floor flanked by dragonflame. Just then another stream of dragonflame jetted past Jon as a streak of green careened across the pavilion towards the meal. Unsure of how Daeraxes would take to the newcomer, Jon squat down with the two. Daeraxes had charred a lump of meat and was working on a second when the smaller green dragon tore it from her jaws and gulped it in one fell motion. Daeraxes snapped at the green, but then busied herself with portions of her own. Lost in the amusement of not one, but two dragons, Jon heard a soft voice call out from behind him. 

“Two?” Jon turned to find Daenerys upright. She had pulled the furs up to her chest, and with her free hand was sweeping her silver hair, tangled in brambles, from her soot-streaked face. Jon smiled, grabbed Daeraxes from her finished meal and stepped toward the furs where Daenerys sat eyes-wide and bewildered. Curled about his arm, Jon presented the black dragon who cocked its head inquisitively at Daenerys. The latter shot Jon a hesitant look. 

“Go on,” he whispered. Jon watched as Dany outstretched a trembling hand and placed a finger gently at the crest of the dragon’s head, as she ran her slender fingers down the dragon’s back, watched as all but Daenerys and his dragon seemed to melt away. Dany finally looked up from the dragon, her amethyst eyes meeting Jon’s pools of Stark grey. 

“What’s her name?” She asked demurely. 

“Daeraxes,” Jon answered as the dragon unfurled herself from his forearm and flew to where Daenerys’ green was curled up on the floor. “After,” he paused for a moment, rubbing the nape of his neck. His dark brown curls loose about his face. “After you, Dany…” Jon inched closer, his heart bursting from his chest with each beat, and grabbed her hands in his.  _ If not now, when?   _ Hands clasped, Dany’s fur coverlet fell away baring two perfect breasts. Every inch of Jon’s body ached for her. Plead for her. Unable to bear it a moment longer, Jon leaned forward, bringing his forehead against hers, eyes closed. How long they sat there drinking in each other’s presence he could not say, but soon he felt his mouth on hers. Slow at first but more desperate with each passing moment. A sense of urgency growing between them. Her hands began to search hungrily over his tunic, and he shuddered as she slipped a probing hand underneath it as he felt her hand against his stomach. Jon’s hands drifted upwards towards her breasts, round and soft. He felt her nipples stiffen against his caressing thumb. He pulled away, leaving her full lips red and swollen in his wake. In a single swift motion, Jon pulled her onto his lap, his manhood like to burst against his trousers. Straddled atop Jon, Daenerys wrapped her arms about him, leaving a trail of kisses down his neck. Jon groaned and leaned into her, pressing her hard against his body. 

“Ahem,” a meek voice called from the threshold and Jon tampered the urge to throttle whomever it was. With Daenerys still astride him, Jon craned his neck to see a squire shifting uncomfortably where he stood, his eyes averted from the two Targaryens. “I beg pardon, your grace. The King is without.” Jon sighed. 

“Alright,” Jon sighed. “Give us a moment.” The squire bowed curtly and turned to leave. Hands still clasped behind Jon’s neck, Dany kissed him and burrowed her head into his chest. Jon could scarce believe it. He would not be surprised if in the next instant he would find himself back in Winterfell gasping for breath as he cursed the gods for letting him dream such a dream. But through some sort of strange providence, he had found his way back to Daenerys. Across seas of water and grass, he had found her. Maester Aemon’s words echoed throughout his mind:  _ Born to remake the world.  _ “Dany,” he said finally, cutting the content silence between them. She lifted her head and met his eyes, her face resolute as if she understood something Jon did not. Her conviction carried him onward. 

“I will not let them part us again,” Dany said, her voice firm. 

“Aye,” Jon said, his voice dripping with the adopted northern burr. It made Dany smile. 

“Aye,” she reiterated, smiling. 

“Right,” Jon said exhaling. “Let’s go see my father.” 

 

Rhaegar was overseeing departure preparations when Jon and Dany finally emerged from their pavilion. Jon had clad himself in a traditional northern style gambeson and Stark breastplate, the pommel of Longclaw jutting out from his side. Daenerys herself in Targaryen reds and blacks. Her green dragon tucked under her arm, fast asleep. 

“Little Sister,” Rhaegar took Dany into his arms, his violet eyes welling with tears. “Let me look at you,” with both hands still clasping her shoulders, Rhaegar pulled back from Dany and scanned her up and down. “I see you couldn’t let this one outdo us all,” he glanced at the dozing dragon and then to Jon.

“She was brilliant, father,” Jon said nodding his head and winking at Dany. From behind them, Daeraxes gave a shriek and shot past them, it’s wings radiating in the morning light. 

“I have no doubt,” Rhaegar stated turning, beckoning the two to follow. Jon could see something was troubling his father. Something other than what usually plagued him. “Do you have a name for him? Balerion? Vermithor?” Rhaegar offered a gentle smile to Dany as they strode beside each other. Jon fell into place next to Daenerys as they walked uphill toward where the horses were hobbled. 

“Aeghal,” Daenerys said firmly as she stroked the crest of her dragon’s head. The princess and dragon looked as though they had spent their entire lives in the company of each other. As though one could not exist without the other. Jon understood. He thought of his two companions and smiled. What strange bedfellows they’d collected across the years. 

“A fitting name for a Targaryen dragon,” Rhaegar smiled and glanced at Jon. They reached the horses who were being saddled at the top of a small bluff. Atop it, they could see for miles and in the distance, Dothraki campfires smoldered. Jon’s stomach lurched. They had little and less time. 

“Brother,” Dany said as she chose a beautiful silver as her mount. “You seem a bit nonchalant about…” she trailed off as she gazed upward at the circling Daeraxes. 

“About the dragons?” Rhaegar finished her thought. “That is something we must discuss later,” his voice seemed to drip with apprehension. Jon knew what conversation lay ahead for Dany and Rhaegar. The ghost of High Heart. Prophecy. The Prince who was Promised. Azor Ahai. He almost wished he had never been gifted the dragon’s egg. “Jon,” Rhaegar turned to his son. “You’ll ride ahead with Dany--” 

“Jon?” Dany turned from saddling her horse, her face littered with bewilderment. Jon readied himself. 

“That’s my name, Dany,” Jon said obstinately.

“Your name is Aegon.” Jon could see the blood of the dragon rise in Dany’s face. Jon looked to his father but could see that was a dead end. This was between him and Dany. 

“That  _ was  _ my name,” he signed. “I’ve lived for the better part of a decade as a bastard. A bastard named Jon Snow. Free of the trappings and expectations that come with the name Targaryen. Free from the expectations of a prince.” 

“You  _ are  _ a prince,” Dany snapped. “You  _ are  _ a Targaryen. This is folly, Aegon. You can’t change who you are.” Dany stepped forward her fists clenched. 

“I’m not changin’ who I am,” Jon rebuked, his northern accent in full fervor. “Targaryen I may be, but I’m also a Stark. You don’t understand what that means.”

“I understand perfectly,” Dany spat. Silence engulfed them. Jon finally found the resolve to try again.

“I can be both,” he said softly. “Targaryen and Stark. But I am of the North and the North is of me. I cannot change that.” Dany turned back towards her silver palfrey and pulled herself atop it. 

“I knew this would happen,” Dany said bitterly through tears. “I told you. You were bound to me as Aegon… And you broke it.” She spurred her silver onward, leaving Rhaegar and Jon in her wake. Jon made for his black garron, pushing aside the squire who was saddling it and finished himself. Pain spread through Jon's chest like a pool of freshly spilled blood as he recalled their vows beneath the heart tree. Swinging himself upward and onto his black mount he looked around but could no longer see Daenerys. He closed his eyes, searching for Daeraxes and suddenly felt the pull of his dragon. 

_ Below was nothing but gold. She wanted to see the other again and she felt her master long for it too. The wind whipped past her as she scanned below. And then she saw it. The other. The little green one and his master. She dove down towards them.  _

Jon opened his eyes. 

"I found her," he said to his father. 

"After her," Rhaegar commanded. "When you do, make for the road to Volantis. We will not be far behind." 

"Father, the Dothraki. They know we're here." 

"We will make light work of the Horselords. They are leaderless now. They will be more vulnerable now that others are vying for power." Jon nodded. And looked towards where Daenerys rode off. 

"Ghost!" He shouted. "To me!" 


End file.
